


A Seven Chapters Solution

by PinaNaponi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnsexual Sherlock, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Smut, happy end, sherlock's hands appreciation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinaNaponi/pseuds/PinaNaponi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John falls in love and Sherlock is completely clueless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The creaking handle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multiple chapters work for the BBC Sherlock series and the first longer work I've written in english. This is obviously not my first language so please excuse any mistakes and leave me a comment if you find one. The story is unbeta'd but I thoroughly proofread to my best knowledge, of course.
> 
> I could write so much about this story, why I chose which scene and how important it was for me to describe John's feelings and how long it took me to form a halfway consistent story but I know I barely read author's notes when eager to read a fic. So go on then, have fun and let me know how you liked if, if so inclined.

It was already past midnight, when John returned to Baker Street. The lights were off so Sherlock was either already asleep (which John fairly doubted) or hadn't come home yet from where ever he had wandered off to in the morning.

John chucked his coat over a chair, against his usual habit of hanging it on the dresser, and lit the little lamp on the tea table nearby. He sighed, standing in the middle of their living room. He knew he should be going to sleep since a long day would await him tomorrow, however, he didn't feel like it.  
After standing a little more he took a step forward just to decide otherwise and direct his steps to the kitchen to inspect the contents of the fridge. He didn't find anything to his liking and decided on a drink instead. After pouring himself a glass of whiskey he sat down in his chair and took a sip.  
Whiskey wasn't something John enjoyed particularly but Mrs. Hudson had given him the bottle for Christmas so he decided it wouldn't hurt to actually do something with it. Like drinking. He took another gulp, still not sure about what to do next. A quick glance on his phone showed no missed calls or texts from Sherlock which didn't really help with deciding. Where the hell was he?

It took John another three sips of whiskey to decide he would just check Sherlock's bedroom for his presence. He sighed again before he mustered up the strength to raise himself from his comfy, trusted chair. He took the glass with him and sneaked to the door of Sherlock's bedroom. No light was emerging from the slit under it.  
John placed his ear on the wooden door but everything seemend to be silent inside. He gently pushed the handle, slowly so it wouldn't creak (because that's what it usually did and why John was able to hear Sherlock coming home late at nights when he was lying in his own bedroom on the floor above).  
The room was incredibly dark due to the thick, heavy curtains Sherlock preferred. He said he could think best in utter darkness which John found to be complete rubbish. Sherlock could always think best, no matter the circumstances. As long as Anderson wasn't present. Even then he could think better than anyone else John knew. John opened the door a little more so he could push his head through.

"Sherlock?" he whispered. No reply. He started to wonder if Sherlock was even physically able to sleep tight enough to not hear him. The man always seemed to be alert, even in the rare occasions John caught him sleeping (except for the moments when John would've left the flat for hours before Sherlock noticing).  
John pushed himself through the door a little more, trying to make out anything in the dark room. He could see a tiny slit between the curtains where dim light came from the window. His eyes seemed to slowly adapt to the darkness a little because he was now able to identify the shape of the chair that stood by the window.  
"Sherlock?" he tried again, a little louder this time but still whispering. He heard something like a grunt from the left where Sherlock's bed was though he couldn't say for sure in this damned darkness. He found the grunt confirmation enough for Sherlock's presence and wellbeing and closed the door again, as quiet as possible. The handle only creaked a little.

He managed to make as much as two steps before he heard Sherlock's voice from behind the door. "John!" That was just like him. Sherlock did never ask for him, he didn’t even request, instead he ordered. John turned round and opened the door again, this time not caring so much about the creaking handle.  
"What is it?" he asked into the still pitch-black room. "Have you been awake the whole time?", he took a step forward, resting his hand on the wall on the left for supporting orientation. "Yes." Sherlock replied calmly. "Then, why did you turn off the lights? Thinking?" The last word came out of John's mouth a lot harsher than he had intended to but Sherlock didn't notice. Or care, maybe.

"It's an experiment." Sherlock muttered impatiently. Oh. Oh, of course. How could it not be. How could anyone expect the man to just sleep like everyone else on the world did from time to time. John reminded himself that Sherlock was nothing like everyone else and somehow, not for the first time, found comfort in that thought.  
"Do you...do you mind if I turn on the light?" he asked. "Yes!" Sherlock insisted, "It's too light!" Oh well. John tried to clear his face from its dumbfounded expression upon this brilliant deduction. "Alright, I'll leave then." he declared and made a move towards the door. "No!" Sherlock requested. John heard him rustling in his bed sheets and when he just was about to ask his friend why, Sherlock asked "Did you drink?".

John wondered if Sherlock was able to smell the alcohol in his breath from over there and assumed he was. Bloodhound. "Yes, mum, I drank. Sorry I came home late, I will go straight to my homework." he answered. He was annoyed by Sherlock but then he was always annoyed by him so it didn't really matter in the end. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't like it, he had concluded long ago. One of John's better deductions, to be fair.

"Stay." Sherlock said, nothing more. Oh how romantic, John thought before he released an anger-driven, rather long speech about how he was not going to stay in a pitch-black room with a weirdo who was only able to communicate by shouting syllables through the dark. He liked the face Sherlock usually made when he delivered angry speeches to him, however due to the dark he couldn't see Sherlock's face and somehow this was only half the fun. John sighed and took another sip from his now half empty glass.  
"Okay. Great. If you want me to stay, I want to turn on the light. Any light. I don't care which light, but I prefer to actually see my surroundings." he snarled. "You know what my room looks like." Sherlock replied. John debated whether it would be a good idea to just ram his own head into the wall. Or maybe better Sherlock's head.

"I'm going to bed." John snapped and turned to leave. When he was already back in the corridor he heard Sherlock move up. "Alright then." his voice suggested and when John turned round he was leaning in the door frame, subtly lit from behind by what looked like the shine of a single candle. Sherlock looked debauched, to say the least.  
To begin, he didn't wear trousers. He did however wear an undone button-down shirt and a bed sheet, draped around him as if he was Caesar. John cleared his throat upon the sight. "Are you commando under your...gown?" he tried to say without letting his voice crack.

Sherlock did not bother with a reply and instead turned round and disappeared in his room. John shook his head and took another sip of the gold liquid. Then he laughed and tilted forward, following his eccentric friend in his bedroom, trying not to think about how this scene looked very much like one from one of those cheesy movies Harry liked. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed and gestured John to sit down in the chair by the window. On the night table rested a single candle that threw obscured shadows of the interior on the walls. John sat down.

"So, Sherlock. Is this some kind of romantic thing? You, half naked on your bed, the candle..? I daresay I am surprised your taste in romanticism is such a classic one." John uttered. Sherlock had either not listened or decided John's mockery was best to be muted by ignorance. He still was a bit disappointed when Sherlock didn't pick up the game. Instead, Sherlock looked to him now, that eager look in his eyes he only knew too well. He was up to something.  
"I've been thinking." he said. Now, how unusual for the world's only consulting detective, John thought but did not say a word. Instead he gulped down a little more of his whiskey which was now already three quarters done. "Do you remember the client from yesterday?" Sherlock went on.

Of course John did. She had been a small little lady, around seventy, walked a little shaky and came around right after tea time. Something about her dog. It took all of John's composure to not laugh at the "case" she had  
wanted them to take. Sherlock didn't really seem interested at that time either.  
"I think we should go and visit her." the figure on the bed declared. "What?" John replied. Was Sherlock really considering this to be an actual case? An old lady who thought something was wrong with her dog? Did Sherlock go mad? Or even madder? And was there any use in trying to change his mind?

Probably not, John decided and sighed. "Alright then, let's go and see her tomorrow." he said and emptied the remainder of his drink in one go. Sherlock grinned at him and rolled himself up in his bed sheets again.


	2. The Case of the curious Flatmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whole lot of domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter of the whole thing, don't worry. It's just about John swooning (though he wouldn't admit it). Beta'd by sherlockforever_56, thank you!

The next morning John was woken by the sound of a violin playing. It occurred to him that Sherlock hadn't been playing his instrument for a while and usually it was a good sign when he did.  
The past weeks had been a little dull for the duo. John had been working a lot in the surgery, taking more patients than usual. All because Sherlock had been declining case after case, client after client. Nothing had seemed to really spark his interest and it was beyond John how the man could be so careless when it came to earning money.  
So though Sherlock usually acted like John was his damsel in distress, he was actually the one to bring the money home. If one was inclined to say so. When exactly they had started sharing their money neither of them remembered or even bothered to think about.

John didn't care all that much about things like these. If living with Sherlock and going on adventures was what he paid for, he was happy to do so. How strange that sounded he most likely was aware of but he had decided to not bother himself with any further thoughts concerning his weird friendship with Sherlock. He had just decided to keep it to himself because everyone would either assume he was a victim to the Stockholm(es) syndrome, or even worse, they might once again think they were in a relationship. And John didn't like thinking about that either.  
After he got himself dressed in his usual trousers-shirt-jumper combo he walked down the stairs to their shared living room.  
Sherlock stood by the window, front illuminated by some rare sunlight from outside and played something John thought he'd recognize as Bach but he wasn't too sure. Just as John had his habits when it came to clothing, Sherlock wore his usual trousers-and-borderline-too-tight-shirt combo. Today the shirt was dark blue for a change.

When he heard John coming he stopped playing and beamed at him, then he put down the violin and sat down in his chair in front of the coffee table. Neither of the men could say when exactly tea spent in intimate togetherness had become a morning ritual, however it had and even Sherlock seemed to actually enjoy it.  
John sat down in his chair on the opposite and lifted a cup of steaming tea which was surely the work of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock did the same, took a cautious sip of the hot tea and then grimaced a little as he seemed to have burned the tip of his tongue. John instead blew at his tea.

  
They sat like this in silence for a couple of minutes. John thought about what Sherlock might be thinking about. He often thought about Sherlock’s thoughts. What it would feel like to think like him, to have a mind like him. Don't get him wrong, he wasn't jealous or anything, he wasn't even curious because for that they've known each other too long, he wasn't even merely interested. Though he would not admit it, the term to best describe it would be fascination. If John was anything, he really was fascinated by Sherlock's mind.

  
Why he felt like that, John couldn't tell but in the end his capability of finding Sherlock's mind fascinating instead of intimidating or annoying might be the one reason their friendship had been within possibilities. Everyone else hated Sherlock after being deduced by him. People usually felt offended and creeped out. John didn't. He stood in awe, each and every single time, sometimes Sherlock's brilliancy even gave him goosebumps. By chance it also made him bloody angry but well, mostly because along with the brilliant mind also came a lot of self-absorbed prickishness.

  
John wondered a lot about how Lestrade had managed to recruit Sherlock and not regret it every single second. While the detective sure was very helpful and, let's be honest, Scotland Yard would've been lost without him, he also behaved like an utter prick and crept around crime scenes like a lunatic. He'd steal Lestrade's service certificate at least every two or three months just to annoy him. He was snappy, bossy and a total show-off. John loved it. But he could also wrap his head very well around the fact that everyone else hated it. Maybe he would have to ask Lestrade one day. While John was a little too besotted with the consulting detective, Lestrade definitely wasn't so how did the man put up with him?

  
John noticed Sherlock was watching him and looked up to meet his gaze. His brows were ever so slightly furrowed, clear indication that he was trying to read John's thoughts. Not for the first time the doctor was more than happy that this was something even beyond Sherlock's abilities.  
John cleared his throat, "What is it Sherlock?" he asked with what he hoped looked like an innocent smile.  
Sherlock seemed to hesitate, just for a blink and then immediately snapped back into composure. "The case", Sherlock said and waited for John to nod as a sign he knew what his flatmate was talking about, "I think I missed something. We have to go and see the dog. There is something." Sherlock took another sip of his tea and John could literally see how he grew impatient. "Alright then." John said and emptied his cup.

Ten minutes later Sherlock once again demonstrated his magical cab-hailing abilities. The ride to Twickenham took a while and for some reason John spent the time thinking about the previous evening. When he remembered Sherlock's absurd outfit he suppressed an amused laughter which certainly was for the better since just a second later a suspicion dawned on him.

  
Sherlock had been wearing nothing but a shirt. He had been in his bed, lights off, at an unusual hour. The bedroom door had been closed. Sherlock had not been sleeping. Oh Jesus, the evidence was so clear, how could he not have noticed? John felt a blush creeping up his neck. While he had always thought Sherlock to be asexual or just not interested and married to his work, who would think the man didn't wank?  
John tried to breathe away the horror that tried to claw its way out of his chest when he realized what he had interrupted his flatmate doing. Christ. John shifted a little in his seat, feeling genuinely uncomfortable next to Sherlock who luckily seemed completely engaged with pre-case thoughts.

It was a horrible hot day in London and almost noon when Sherlock rang the doorbell of the tiny little white house of their client. The sun was burning down on them mercilessly and John was already getting rid of his jumper and tied it around his waist using its sleeves. Inside of the old lady's house it was even worse. She didn’t seem to have A/C and John felt himself reminded of the hot dustiness of Afghanistan. While he sat next to Sherlock on the stuffy sofa he felt himself dozing off. They were waiting for the tea the lady was preparing in the kitchen and neither of them spoke. Sherlock merely stared at the opposite wall, his silhouette illuminated by the light coming from the window front behind him. John looked at the dust particles around Sherlock's curls and chuffed a little laugh.

  
Usually Sherlock didn't show any sign of reactions to weather. He didn't really seem to feel cold, most certainly due to his constant companion, his posh, absurdly expensive coat. He also never complained over rain or snow. But now John could actually see Sherlock's body betraying him. An ever so slight film of sweat covered the cupid bow over Sherlock's upper lip. Why he didn't take off his coat was beyond John’s comprehension. Even less why he thought that little weakness of his flatmate's so endlessly adorable and endearing. And why by Christ, his head had chosen to attribute the man with such words.

  
While he was, to be honest, blatantly staring at Sherlock time didn't seem to advance at all. Only when John noticed him lifting his hand something in his head snapped back in its place. John's eyes were fixed on those long fingers moving to the dark blue collar opening a third button on Sherlock's shirt. Oh, made John's head and then their client entered the room, balancing a tea kettle and a sugar pot on a tray. He felt like he’d never been so thankful for anyone interrupting his thoughts.


	3. The physical and psychological Effects of Heat (a study)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is really gone actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by sherlockforever_56, thank you <3

This night John dreamt of Sherlock. Don't get him wrong, he often dreamt about Sherlock. Usually these were fast, adrenaline fueled dreams about rushed chases through dark alleys, panting and happy and wonderful. Sometimes he dreamt about the domesticity they shared in their flat. Takeaway on the sofa while watching crap telly, and Sherlock muttering to himself what rubbish they were watching. Morning tea in their chairs, reading the newspaper or Sherlock playing the violin. Another one of Sherlock's experiments gone wrong and John simply pointing to the fire extinguisher (that he had moved to their living room after that particular dream) instead of panicking. These were John's usual dreams about Sherlock and they were totally normal.

However, this night was different. He dreamt about those hands, the long, delicate fingers with their neatly cut nails and little scars and blisters from recent chemical burns and whatever stupid thing Sherlock had touched with his bare skin instead of wearing gloves. Sherlock's hands taking the bow and violin and playing some intense tune. Sherlock’s hands buttoning the hideous coat. Sherlock's hands deliberately opening a new book and then scanning over the pages. Sherlock’s hands holding his phone and typing quick, aggravated text messages. Sherlock's hands touching John's wrists when manhandling him into his jacket before dragging him out of the flat on another case. While the dream wasn't particularly erotic John woke up aching hard in his pants and very confused. He denied himself any thoughts about it and forced himself back to sleep. When he woke up next in the morning he had almost forgotten about it.

_(August 4 th) _

It didn't take long for John to be reminded again though. When he came down the stairs he nearly jumped at the sight of Sherlock emerging from the bathroom, straight out of shower, damp curls hanging in his face, his neck and shoulders still dripping wet and only a towel around his hips. He had seen his flatmate right after his morning routine before, it really was unevitable when living together, but somehow today it made him flush. Sherlock looked up, nodded briefly and disappeared in his room. John was glad he hadn't managed to voice an audible answer because he was pretty sure it would've been something along "Unghph". He shook his head at himself and went to the kitchen to make tea. A good cuppa and the world would look totally different, John thought.

Jesus, what was going on with him? He definitely needed to get laid and not by his flatmate, thank you very much. Maybe he should try to hook up with a guy, John thought. He never really entertained himself questioning his sexuality and it wasn't as surprising for him to find a man attractive as for it being Sherlock. He did experiment back in uni and while in the army and since the whole girlfriend-thing didn't really go that well (horrible, to be honest) maybe he should experiment a little further. It really sounded desperate, even to himself.

The kettle whistled the exact moment Sherlock entered the living room and John thanked an imaginary power for the fact that his flatmate was now fully clothed. He quickly prepared two cups and placed one on Sherlock's table before he sat down in his chair opposite of him. He didn't look up but instead took a cautious sip of his tea only to burn the tip of his tongue. Sherlock made a little amused sound that transported a whole 'I could've told you that it's still too hot because it has been only 72 seconds since the water had been boiling thus it is now around 82°C and also the teabag hasn't been in it long enough for the flavor to be appropriate' that John could only decipher because this was Sherlock and he was John and that's how they worked with each other. Sherlock's mouth twitched in a little grin because he knew exactly that John had understood. Smug, perfect bastard.

Later when Sherlock had left the flat to do some research about that stupid dog case (John didn't want to know and had refused to help since he had to do the bills today and Sherlock would never _ever_ do them but _someone_ still had to pay them if they wanted to keep having electricity and working phones, ergo this was John's task once a month. Sherlock had argued but eventually shut up and just left.) John took out his laptop and hesitated a moment. He then typed 'gay bars london' into google search and hit enter. He scrolled down a bit and sighed again. This was ridiculous but it wasn't to be helped, into battle, he thought and then wrote down an address in his calendar just before he cleared his browser history. Living with Sherlock did make one paranoid. John felt it was just reasonable.

Sherlock returned late that night. John lay in his bed when he heard footsteps on the stairs and then the door to Sherlock's bedroom. Must've been a busy day then, if he got straight to bed, John thought but he couldn't really trail it any further because the claws of sleep were reaching for him and he had a shift at the surgery the next morning.

_(August 5 th) _

The next day was crazy, although it was blazing hot summer outside the waiting room in the surgery was stuffed with people and John ended up working over hours until the late afternoon. On his way home he stopped at Tesco's to pick up some milk and ice cream. He thought about it for a second and picked up a second jar of ice cream for Sherlock. When he arrived home it was five to six and John craved a huge cup of tea and something to eat. He stored the shopping in the refrigerator and went to the living room. No sign of Sherlock, his coat and shoes were absent though he obviously hadn't even hung them up here when he had returned the previous night. But he couldn't still be sleeping, couldn't he? Mid-case?

John put the kettle on the stove and headed for Sherlock's bedroom. He knocked but Sherlock didn't reply. "Sherlock? You in there?" he asked the door but still nothing. He felt a slight deja-vu when he pushed down the (goddamned creaking) handle and shot a quick look inside.

Sherlock was laying on his back in the middle of his bed, his limbs sprawled wide over the sheets, his right calf and foot hanging over the edge of the mattress. “Sherlock? You alright?” John whispered. Sherlock made a strangled grunt but didn't move. “What is it?” John asked, his voice now at a normal volume, while he stepped beside the bed. Sherlock's eyes were thin, icy slits. “Too hot.” he muttered. The black curls were damp and clinged to sweaty temples. The detective was wearing his pajama bottoms and a cotton shirt, the latter having slipped up his belly and exposing a narrow piece of white, soft skin just above the waistband. John swallowed.

“Let me feel your forehead.” he commanded. If there was anything he absolutely didn't need now it was an ill flatmate. Sherlock tried to get up und failed, instead he just made an elusive movement with his right hand. John stepped right next to the mattress and reached down to feel Sherlock's forehead. No fever. So most likely just overheating, John thought and indicated Sherlock to stay where he was. He then went to fetch the container of ice cream, a spoon and a kitchen towel that he soaked in cold water and wrung out briefly. Stacked with his supplies he returned to Sherlock's bedroom.

“Try to sit up, will you?”. John switched on his soothing “I'm a doctor, trust me”-voice which made even Sherlock obey and then yell because the cold, damp towel was placed around his neck mercilessly. John ignored the outraged glare he was rewarded with and instead opened the ice cream, peeled off the foil and dug the spoon inside. “Here, eat some.” he held it out to Sherlock who just stared at him accusingly. John knew why he wasn't working at the children's medical unit. Six feet of sulking detective really were enough for his nerves. “Alright.” John said and then, with stoical calmness pulled out a portion of the ice cream with the spoon. “Open up.” he commanded and despite the now murderous glare Sherlock shot at him, he opened his mouth and let John insert the spoon. “There you go.” John smiled, pulled out the spook and dug it back into the creamy ice to reload.

It really cost him a lot of willpower not to grin from ear to ear because he was spoon-feeding Sherlock Holmes ice cream. Of all people. What had his life become.

Three spoons later Sherlock's strength seemed to have recovered at least partially because he lifted his arm and took the spoon out of John's hand. John folded his arm in front of his chest and lowered his chin. “At least three more and then I will get you a bottle of water that you will down. I won't leave before.” The tight lips pursed and then opened to let another bit of melting ice cream in, this time directed by Sherlock's own hand. After two more spoons John nodded approvingly and went to retrieve a bottle of water. When he returned Sherlock was still sat in his bed, now cross-legged, still eating ice cream. John tried not to stare as Sherlock licked first the spoon and then his right index and middle finger clean of the sweet substance. Then he obediently drank down the whole bottle of water at once, his adam's apple bobbing at every gulp. “Good boy.” John croaked “You should try to get some sleep, you will feel much better afterwards.” he prompted and then fled the room to take a nice, long and rather cold shower.


	4. The Five Variables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five occasions that contribute to a certain development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by sherlockforever_56, thank you!

_(August 6_ _th_ _)_

_In which John learns something about himself_

John stood on the other side of the road and looked at the bar he had chosen to check out. There was a little rainbow flag in one corner of the window and behind the curtains he could see dim colorful lights. There was no way he could do this. He swallowed hard. Oh God, he couldn't just go in there and flirt with some guy. This was so, so wrong. He let out a quiet moan of frustration and then called Lestrade, "Oi mate, what about a pint?". Twenty minutes later he sat in a pub drinking beer with Lestrade and feeling a thousand times more like himself. While Greg was most likely a good looking bloke John didn't feel attracted to him at all which was rather relaxing for a change. It didn't solve any of his problems and didn't get him laid but at least the other man was a reliable mate whom he definitely didn't want to bugger. In hard times you find comfort in the simplest of things.

_(August 16 th) _

_In which Sherlock behaves less like himself_

John came home from another day at the surgery. He had worked over hours once again (seriously, who needed a flu epidemic in the middle of summer?) and it was way past six when he finally managed to insert the key to the lock of 221b. He dropped the shopping on the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. A sigh escaped him when he steadied himself against the fridge and massaged his tensed neck muscles. John turned round when he heard steps nearing. He hadn't noticed Sherlock had been in the living room so he shot his flatmate a slightly apologetic smile. “Hullo Sherlock.” he offered but didn't receive anything beside furrowed brows as a reply.

“You really need to get a new chair at the surgery.” Sherlock uttered and then stepped next to John to reach up to the cupboard where he took out two cups and the sugar pot. John shrugged, still working his neck with his fingers while he shifted his weight so Sherlock could access the fridge to retrieve the milk. These were the things that no one else knew. That Sherlock did actually worry about John and helped with making tea as a form of taking care. One time he had even made him a sandwich when John had sprained his wrist while dragging a suspect off Sherlock. These were things Sherlock only ever did for John. And here he was again, feeling like a school girl who just got her books carried by her crush. Bloody hell. John inhaled slowly, casting a glance at Sherlock who seemed fascinated by the boiling water in the kettle.

He hadn't realized he had been holding his breath until the kettle went off and he released it. Sherlocks lips did an unidentifiable twitch and then he dropped two teabags in the cups and added the steaming water. Two sugars and milk for Sherlock, only milk for John. He handed John his cup who nodded in thanks. Sherlock then turned and walked back to the living room. John followed cautiously as to not spill his tea and then sat down in his chair, literally feeling how his neck muscles relaxed at the well known comfort of his favourite piece of furniture.

While his flatmate furiously typed something into his laptop he just breathed at his tea, inhaling the herbal scent mixed with all the olfactory components 221b consisted of for him, traces of things Sherlock had done in the kitchen, his shampoo, the dusty smell of the carpet and the tons of books stacked in the shelves and on the floor added with the distinct parts that were equally John and Sherlock. The weather of course had to have the nerve to produce a very formidable late summer sunset that tinted everything in slight golden glow and made John feel like living in a hallucination, lulling him in with warmth, the smell of home and the feeling of deep, raw comfort.

Sherlock shut his laptop with one aggravated movement and looked at John, studying his face, scrutinising whatever he might be able to see there. Most likely the sleepless nights and countless times he awoke from his sometimes horrible, and as of late sometimes rather enjoyable dreams. John prayed Sherlock wasn't able to deduce the exact nature of the dreams off his face and averted his gaze into his teacup.

“Would you mind if I played the violin?” he heard Sherlock say and he looked up quickly to see Sherlock's lips closing and his eyes waiting for a reply. Proof that he had actually said those words and John had not been fantasising them. Can you imagine, Sherlock Holmes asking anyone if they would mind anything. John huffed a laugh. “Go on.” he said and reached for the book beside his chair while Sherlock got up to reach for his Stradivarius.

John tried to read, he really did, but no one who had ever seen Sherlock play the violin (actually play, not only pluck at it to annoy the shit out of everyone else) could really be cross with the doctor for not being able to. Instead he threw glances up at Sherlock whenever he felt it was safe to look. The grace and care with which Sherlock treated his instrument was beyond everything John had ever seen before he had moved in with the genius. The tender grip on the bow, the affectionate fingers dancing over the strings, the careful, precise movements of the bow. And his face really was the best part, when the madman closed his eyes at a part of very quick crescendo and his face showed nothing but utter delight. John had to drink a huge mouthful of tea to distract himself. He felt beyond stupid. And it took John a couple of seconds to snap back into his mind when Sherlock had stopped playing a couple of minutes later and apparently asked him something that completely slipped his notice.

“Err sorry, what?” he inquired, blinking his eyes at Sherlock. But the detective just shot him a disapproving look and strode out of the room. Sighing, John sank back into his chair and was finally able to concentrate on his book. More or less.

_(September 12 th) _

_In which Sherlock really gets too close_

It was a horrible day and the case they were on was tiring. They had been keeping their suspect under surveillance for almost two hours now, following him through London in the streaming September rain. John was freezing and soaking wet and Sherlock made a face like he'd bitten on a lemon for the last twenty minutes straight which most likely indicated that his coat had surrendered to the sheer amout of liquid, too. His curls were plastered to his forehead and his eyes looked like he would very much like to punch someone right now. They were currently hunched around the corner of a back alley their suspect had disappeared into and advanced slowly.

John almost bumped into the wet coat before him when Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and pushed him into a small passage on their left. He lay a finger against his lips and looked at John intently . The doctor flattened his back against the wall behind him when he heard loud voices around the corner. Sherlock pulled him deeper into the shadow of the passage between some boards and poles. He was pressed against John now, almost chest to chest, breathing deep and eyes fixed on the exit. John tried to control his breathing, tried not to look at Sherlock, remembering the gun in the waistband of his jeans and the potentially dangerous situation they were in. He stood as still as possible while Sherlock pulled out his phone to send a text message. John tried to ignore that the chill started to make his knees tremble and how the white shirt over Sherlock's chest had gone nearly transparent and displayed the reaction of the detective's right nipple to the cold. Three minutes later they heard the sirens and John had never been more thankful for them.

_(October 3 rd) _

_In which Sherlock gets too close to someone else_

John was almost home when his phone rang. He fumbled with his jacket pocket and when he saw “Greg Lestrade” on the display he felt the blood in his veins freezing. He knew something had gone wrong, felt it in every fiber of his being. “Yes?” he answered roughly.

“John! Listen mate, erm, Sherlock has been stabbed – no, don't freak out, he's fine. But he's being all silly and doesn't want to go to the A&E, could you come and look after him? I'll text you the address.”

“Jesus. Yes, I'll be with you as soon as I find a cab. Don't let him sneak away! Thanks Greg...for calling I mean.”

John shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned towards the street to haul a cab. When he arrived at the address Lestrade had texted him twelve minutes later he was almost sore from the tension in his jaw mucles. He quickly passed the police cars and nodded briefly in Donovan's direction. The look of disgust in her face didn't even bother him. Then he found Greg, phone to his ear, shouting directions and looking just that mixture between exasperation and excitement he always did at a crime scene. So Sherlock couldn't be hurt that bad. John felt his shoulders drop a little in relief. Greg waved and pointed to an ambulance on the next corner. John almost ran.

“This is ridiculous, I am a grown man and surely capable of estimating my bodily functions better than -John!”

John couldn't quite hide the smile that crept over his face when he heard Sherlock's voice, being as obnoxious as ever. He was sitting on the edge of the back of the ambulance, a paramedic next to him looking more than annoyed.

“Well, seems like at least someone got close enough to you to almost stop your body from having any functions.” John said, his smile rendering the snarl in his voice futile.

“Hardly. I knew he had a knife.” Sherlock spat and scowled at John, who came closer to inspect the actual damage.

“Didn't prevent you from being stabbed. Now, shut up and let me look at it, will you?”

Sherlock huffed but didn't protest. He lifted the blanket that had been wrapped around his torso and John swallowed. There seemed to be blood everywhere. Sherlock's thigh was bound tightly with his scarf to prevent from excessive bleeding. Which made the amount of blood even scarier. John swallowed again.

“Christ, Sherlock...”

“Don't worry John, he missed the rofunda femoris artery and it only started to bleed that much when I removed the knife. But I had to go after him.”

Sherlock looked at him with concern. John didn't want to think about how Sherlock had to actually remove a knife that stuck in his thigh by himself, without narcotics. When being stabbed you're supposed to leave the weapon in to keep the blood inside but Sherlock had gotten rid of the knife to chase the suspect and hence lost a lot of blood in the process. John felt his facial features growing grim.

“Alright, I will scold you for your thickheadedness later but for now you really need someone to look at this, Sherlock! I will nag Lestrade for someone to drive us home and then I will take care of your injury and make you drink and eat and sleep and you will never let something like this happen again, is that clear?”

It scared John how this was exactly how he felt. Sherlock being hurt was unbearable for him. It was even worse than back in the army where a lot of his mates had been injured but somehow he had gotten used to it, it had happened so often and they all had known what they'd signed up for. Sherlock on the other hand simply didn't understand, didn't appreciate what he was given.

“As crystal.” the deep baritone said and John could sense the amusement and relieve in his voice.

Two minutes later he helped his flatmate into the police car Greg had arranged for them. Sherlock winced when he sat down and John patted his knee because that somehow was all he could do at the moment. Back in their flat John collected his supplies and then joined Sherlock in his bedroom.

“Alright, I'll take the scarf off and then we have to get rid of your trousers.” he advised and tried very hard to not think about trousers coming off in any different context. Sherlock's face was pale and he nodded briefly. John cautiously untied the scarf and dropped it to the floor. It was ruined anyways. Sherlock opened his flies and pulled his trousers over his bottom, obviously trying to hide another wince. John grabbed the damp towel and the antiseptic and tried to focus on his task instead of black briefs.

The wound was about 2 inches wide, not big but must've been pretty deep if the knife had stuck in it. John cleaned the spot thoroughly and then applied the antiseptic. Sherlock hissed at one point but otherwise endured the procedure silently and still. John finished by adding a pad and a bandage. Then he reached for his sphygmomanometer.

“Can you sit up a bit Sherlock? I need to check your blood pressure.”

Sherlock slowly propped himself up on the ellbows and sat up, his head rested against the headboard of his bed, then folding up the sleeve of his right arm, revealing a light, wiry forearm and bend of ellbow, followed by a lean biceps. John swallowed. When Sherlock finished John wrapped the velcro strap around his upper arm and then concentrated on the numbers. When he was done (Sherlock's blood pressure was a little low but still fine) he granted himself a quick glance at Sherlock.

He had seen him with less clothing, even no clothes at all, before but somehow this was different. Sherlock lay still, his cheast heaving and sinking slightly. His eyes were closed and his face almost an expression of peace. John felt his chest jump and irritatedly started to undo the velcro. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and John nodded reassuringly.

“You're fine. Now I get you something to eat and a cup of tea and I'll have to check on the wound daily for two or three weeks but you will be fine.”

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and John fled into the kitchen to collect himself.

_(October 13_ _th_ _)_

_In which John solves the puzzle_

This was unbearable. For ten days John had been nursing Sherlock's stab wound in his thigh. For ten days straight he'd been confronted with his flatmate in briefs. He felt close to becoming mad since day four. That basically meant that John had been unable to concentrate on his work. He kept forgetting things and caught himself staring nowhere particular at least three times a day. He had trouble sleeping and lost his appetite. Sherlock knew something was wrong but he didn't ask. Instead he made it all worse by being nice (well, nice-ish, he was still Sherlock Holmes) to John, just the way he sometimes did to cheer John up.

John tried to recall when Sherlock had actually started the whole cheering-John-up business. He hadn't realized before but at some point after they moved in together Sherlock's behaviour had changed slightly. He still was an arrogant, obnoxious maniac with no sense for privacy or self-preservation but somehow he had found out how to indicate John's moods. So when it was just the two of them and John had been having a miserable day or felt sick Sherlock refrained from really snarky remarks and didn't start arguments just out of boredom. Though the thought irked John, Sherlock was certainly being considerate. For his standarts, at least.

John was no idiot. He knew what was wrong with him. The good doctor had been in love before but never so hopeless. Why did he have to fancy Sherlock Holmes of all people? Over the last couple of weeks he had come to terms with the fact that he was obviously attracted to a man, it had happened before and he just hadn't expected it to happen again; but oh well, here he was. He would grow out of it, John told himself, and then everything would be back to normal. He hoped. And then steeled himself for the daily black-briefs-dark curls treatment.

  
  



	5. The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the saucy stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. And I love cockblock!Lestrade. Beta'd by sherlockforever_56, thank you <3

“You're not going to lay her with that jumper, John.” Sherlock didn't even look up from his laptop when John entered the room.

“Pardon? Lay whom? And what's wrong with the jumper, you git?” John had just gotten up to fetch himself a cup of tea and some toast for breakfast. It was saturday morning and he had been having a bit of a lie-in because he barely got round to sleeping more than six hours in one stretch lately.

“Your girlfriend.” Sherlock replied and John looked at him, baffled. “I don't know what you're talking about.” he replied and sat down on the arm rest of his chair, his eyebrows raised in wonder. Sherlock made an annoyed sound and shut the lid of his laptop.

“Oh, don't even try, John. You have been seeing her for at least ten weeks, if not twelve or more. You want to know how I deduced it, well you have been absentminded for quite a while now. You stare off into the air so you are obviously daydreaming and when someone catches you you blush, so apparently your thoughts are of a more racy nature. Your average shower time has extended by almost four minutes. You barely sleep or eat as of late, however going by that misty-eyed face you always make it's not because something's worrying you. So you're in love. But you haven't brought her here yet. Why is that, one might think and I came to the understanding you didn't want her to meet me because usually your dull girlfriends can't be bothered to stand me. Conclusion: you want to establish your relationship before you introduce us to each other so this time it's serious. Still, that jumper isn't going to do it.”

Sherlock finished, a smug expression on his face, his fingertips aligned before his chin. John was fuming. He had felt the anger creeping up his chest during Sherlock's speech and by now it was seething behind John's eyes.

“There is no bloody woman, Sherlock!” John nearly yelled. Oh, it was almost funny how this might be the first time his genius of a flatmate was completely, utterly wrong.

“Come on John, you don't have to deny it. I've met your girlfriends before and if you really want me to I can try to be somewhat decent, I think. As long as she isn't a complete idiot, of course but she must be special if you're keeping her a secret...”

“Sherlock!”

“...but if you're going to move in with her...”

“Shut up you bloody idiot! Now!” John panted. Sherlock looked baffled and closed his mouth like a fish that had been gaping.

“It’s you, Sherlock!” John shouted. Sherlock just stared at him, opening his mouth to say something and closing it again. He gulped. “What do you mean?” he managed and his voice was darker than usual. “What I mean? Jesus Sherlock!” John threw his hands in the air in a kind of exasperated fit before he braced himself. He was going to do this now. No way back, no thinking. He locked his gaze on his knees and drew in a cautious breath.

“What I mean is that I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop looking at you. When you pass me too close I shudder and every hair on my neck stirs. When you whisper in my ear at a crime scene all I can do is to try as hard as possible to listen over the sensation it causes. I dream about you constantly. You drive me mad, you know? When you smirk at me the way you only smirk at me? The smile you use to let me know everyone is dumb and boring except for me. You have _no_ idea what this does to me, do you? I have tried at least three hundred times to stop me from staring at your arse over the last couple of days and you know what, I’m not very successful at the attempt. Instead you look at me with those eyes that are clearly too amazing to even fucking exist and I catch myself actually _swooning_ over those goddamn cheekbones of yours. I constantly want to touch your hair and it won’t be long until I will most likely steal one of your shirts to secretly smell it, yes, it’s bloody creepy! And why _for fuck’s sake_ do you always wear these snug shirts? Or think you could wander around me half naked with just a towel around your hips and oh god. Those bloody black briefs! The things I’d like to do to you…” John ended his speech with a frustrated grunt. This was all just too fucked up.

He looked up, and noticed the expression of sheer horror on Sherlock’s face. Well, he had every right to feel horrified, John thought. But then he realized what Sherlock was actually horrified by when he followed his gaze down to his lap. Sherlock was quite obviously having a proper hard-on. Oh. Oh wow. John rubbed his temples with his palms, gasping an ironic laugh onto his wrists. When he thought things couldn’t get even crazier, of course the maniac he was flatsharing with was able to surprise him. Just like he always did. John cleared his throat. “You need help with that?” he asked, his voice dry with a mixture between utter self-humiliation and every last bit of grim humor he could come up with. Sherlock remained dumbstruck and as still as a statue, his glance fixed on his lap.

“Right.” John said and then got up to make some tea in the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water and lit up the stove. He concentrated on every single little movement of his hands, trying to eliminate the thoughts in his head and the burn in his throat.

“John.” came the baritone from the kitchen door and John literally jumped around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, his trousers still tenting in his crotch. What the heck. Sherlock came closer and stopped approximately two feet in front of him, invading his personal space once again. John couldn’t find himself minding it all too much. He looked up to lock his eyes with Sherlock’s. His face seemed composed but there was definitely a flush on those glorious cheekbones and John could actually see the artery on his neck pulsing.

“That attraction of yours, is it based on a newly formed sentiment or would you say it is more on the physical side?” Sherlock seemed calm but John could see his eyelashes flutter. He wasn’t sure what exactly that gave away but he still decided it was too late for him to chicken out so he answered truthfully “Both.”.

John couldn’t say for sure what exactly happened first and who initiated, but just a second later he found himself fisting the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and being snogged senseless. Sherlock pushed a thigh between John’s and urged him backwards until the kitchen counter dug in the small of his back. The kiss was hungry, a swirl of tongues and scraping teeth on wet lips and oh, way too good. The fine lean hands cupped John’s face, a thumb slipping between their faces to brush John’s lower lip and all he could do was hold on for his dear life while he felt himself getting hard. Sherlock pushed his hips against John’s, his erection pressing in the smaller man’s belly and John had to get some air into his lungs or he would just faint right on the spot. The kiss broke for a second and Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s, nuzzling his nose besides his. “Both.” he panted before he resumed the kiss.

This one felt completely different. It was slow and soft and so perfect and just _intense_ and John couldn’t even remember when he had last been kissed so thoroughly, if ever. How was it even possible, oh of course this man would be the most elegant kisser under the sun, just like everything he was, how could he even be surprised. John felt his hands trembling and unconsciously loosened his grip at Sherlock’s shirt and just when he felt a moan creeping out of his throat the kettle went off.

Sherlock made a dissatisfied noise as John turned round to reach for the kettle. His ears burned and his heart was beating like it was about to explode and oh god, he needed a cuppa even more than five minutes ago now. With shaking hands he reached up to get two cups out of the cupboard and poured water into them. Tea bags followed and two sugar cubes in Sherlock’s cup. They were out of milk so this would have to do, John decided. Sherlock was still standing on the same spot when he turned round again, his face a mask of deep concentration, his cheeks flushed and his lips red and swollen. John ignored the pull in his stomach at the sight and set off for the living room where he placed the cups on the sofa table and himself on one end of the sofa.

John tried to calm himself. He was a doctor and a bloody war veteran, he was not about to lose it because of this, whatever it was. He heard Sherlock coming closer and then felt the cushioning of the sofa yield when he sank down on the other end. John looked at him, the genius madman he obviously was utterly in love with and even now he noticed his heart beating faster just because he was close. John felt like a school girl but the grown man and soldier got the better of him.

“Sherlock…” he started but stopped when the man turned his head round to look him in the eye. He looked determined as he pressed out “Yes, I would like some help with that, thank you.” , his left hand gesturing down between his legs where he still seemed to be hard. John couldn’t stop himself from gulping. He felt his own half-hard cock leap in his trousers and it cost him all of his composure to stay on his side of the sofa. “Don’t you think we should talk about his?” he asked instead, raising one eyebrow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his left hand sink on his thigh. He looked at John with an unintelligible expression in his eyes. “I reciprocate.”

“Uhm…what?” was all that John managed to get out of his mouth, he wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head was hammering, trying to wrap itself around the meaning of those words.

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “Oh, you heard me John, don’t make me repeat it.” He spat impatiently.

“Huh.” John made and just stared at him for who knows how long. An annoyed sigh came from the other end of the sofa before Sherlock ran his hands through his curls and twisted his body so he was now facing John.

“You know I’m not good at this whole…thing, John!” Sherlock cried, almost sounding desperate.

“Thing.”, was all that John managed. His dumbfoundedness seemed to wholeheartedly annoy Sherlock out of his wits and before he could even process it, Sherlock leaned over and pulled John closer by the neck.

“As you are obviously not in the state to form coherent sentences you could as well use your mouth for something else.” Sherlock whispered, so close his breath caressed John’s lips and let them twitch. Oh God, this was going to be the death of him, John was sure.

\---

“Sherlock, your phone..” John panted while a long hand sneaked its way into his trousers. The phone buzzed again. Sherlock intensified his grip at John's head and dug back to kiss him again. “Not gonna answer.”

“Sherlock.” The phone buzzed again, ongoing rhythmical noises of vibration. A call now. “What if it's Lestrade?” John mumbled between their lips, his hands frantically gliding over Sherlock's bare chest. “He only ever calls you when it's urgent.” The sound Sherlock made was one of utter frustration when he pulled away from John, reaching down to where his jacket had slid from the sofa effortlessly. He fumbled the phone out of the inner pocket and hit the reply button while sitting up. John plastered light kisses along his collarbone.

“Yes?” Sherlock bellowed in his phone. John carefully licked over his left nipple and felt Sherlock's chest hitch. “How long ago?” Sherlock then spat and John almost felt sorry for the DI when he softly bit in the sparse flesh of the chest muscle which caused another twitch. “I doubt I will be needed, clearly you can manage that joke of a case yourself.” Sherlock hissed when John moved lower. “Christ, Lestrade!” he cried and then “I'll be there in fifteen. Keep Anderson away for all that is good!”. John smiled at Sherlock's navel. “This is horrible.” the detective muttered and let his head fall back as he dropped his phone back to the floor.

John pushed himself up and pecked him on the edge of his mouth. “I'm sorry. Just remember you love your work. Get up.” he smiled and drew away and then blushed when he closed his trousers and looked around for his jumper. Sherlock threw his palms into his face and rubbed his eyes. “I suspect you want to talk about this later.” he told the ceiling. John nodded though he knew Sherlock couldn't see it. “Yes.” he said quietly and then stood up, holding out a hand for Sherlock's. John used the moment it took for Sherlock to notice to catalogue the sight of the man before him, sprawled against the arm of the sofa, clothes and hair askew, a slight tint of red on the gorgeous face. It was perfect.

“I told you weren't going to get laid in that jumper.” Sherlock grinned triumphantically and then took his hand to stand upright and arrange his clothes back into a presentable state. He ran his hands through his hair to straighten out the mess John's hands had made and picked up his jacket. Two minutes later they were sat in a cab on their way to another crime scene.


End file.
